


Off Script

by Tell_Me_Tales



Series: Travels and Journals [9]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Afterlife, Alcohol, Angst, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, Character Study, Dating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Glass Shard Beach, Growing Up, Guns, Life Long Regrets, Ma Pines' Inappropriate Humor, Marriage, Mother-Son Relationship, Older Brothers, Pines Family circa 1970s, Pines Family circa 2010s, Pines Pawns, Post-Series (???), Pre-Series(?), Reluctant Protagonist, Stangst, Tears, Teenage Stan Twins, Teenagers, Time Travel, Twin Troubles, Unwanted Second Chance, Vietnam War, Wherein Filbrick is Human, Work In Progress, some religious themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tell_Me_Tales/pseuds/Tell_Me_Tales
Summary: Most people don't expect their afterlives to include going through the infamous 1970s for a second time. Filbrick Pines may be impressed, but only time will tell if it's favorably.A time travel story with one of the most unqualified protagonists anyone could have picked. Might be fun. Let's find out!





	1. Take Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "take one" that matches this chapter, check out [Rue What You Ruin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760128).

**Dimension 297B**  
**Glass Shard Beach, NJ**  
**April 25, 1970**

 _"And until you make us a fortune, you're not --"_ the man cuts himself off abruptly and goes stock still.

Stanley watches his father with an ever increasing fear as the man fails to do anything other than stare at him. He knows how to deal with yelling. This isn't the first time he's done something that's caused his father to lose his temper, though he's pretty sure this is the _worst_ he's ever seen the older man lose it. This sudden stillness is new ( _wrong_ ) and it frankly scares him more than the screaming ever could have.

The teenager shifts uneasily. "Pops?" he asks, hesitant to break the ringing silence.

Filbrick visibly shudders. "Get back in the house," the man says, voice strained, "Go to your room. Don't come back out until I come to get you."

Stanley shrinks into himself for a second before slowly forcing himself to his feet. He hugs the duffel bag tight to his chest as he makes his way back toward the front door and his father. At this point, he's officially terrified.

Filbrick holds the door open for him, moving far enough out of the way to allow the younger Pines into the building. He all but slams the door closed as soon as his son shuffles around him. His fingers fumble over the lock before succeeding in turning the little switch on the door handle and moving on to the larger one for the deadbolt.

Stan hovers indecisively next to the stairs until Filbrick catches sight of him again. "Go," the older man snaps, making a jerky motion with one arm. His hand is shaking. His face is pale. Stan nods hurriedly and dashes up the staircase. Filbrick doesn't follow him immediately.

"Ma," Stan says as soon as he's reached the second-floor apartment, "Ma, something's wrong with Dad. I, I think he might be havin' a heart attack, or, or, I don't know! But somethin's wrong with him!"

Maude's face pinches further than it already was with yet more worry. "Take the baby," she instructs and then calls for his twin, "Stanford? There's a bottle in the fridge for Rachel. Go fetch it for your brother." Stanley slips the duffel bag's strap over his shoulder and accepts his small niece from his mother's arms.

Ford passes them on his way into the kitchen without even looking at Stan. "Yes, Ma."

"Go on, Stanley," Ma tells him, "Your father won't react well if he catches you out of your room."

"Yes, Ma," Stan echoes his brother's earlier words. He makes it into his room just as he hears Filbrick's heavy tread on the stairs.

"Filbrick?" he hears Ma ask as he tries unsuccessfully to calm Rachel.

There's a pause before the man speaks. " _Maude_ ," Filbrick's voice breaks as he says his wife's name and suddenly Rachel isn't the only one filling the apartment with the sound of crying.

"F-Fil? Honey, what's wrong? What happened?"

Ford enters the room at a near run and wastes no time shutting the door behind him like there's a monster on the other side. His eyes are wide and he looks almost as afraid as Stan feels as he numbly passes over the bottle of baby formula.

The bottle works to appease Rachel's loud complaints. Stan wishes it hadn't. Without the baby's crying there's nothing to obscure Filbrick's own weeping. It's the most unsettling thing he's ever heard and he has no idea what caused it.

Nobody in their tiny apartment sleeps well that night.


	2. The Morning (and Life) After

Filbrick wakes with the worst ( _only_ ) hangover he's ever experienced.

"Urgh..." the man groans as he sits up, peeling his cheek off the desk in his tiny home office. The pawnshop owner blinks and then squints at the room he finds himself in. It's familiar, of course, but the fact stands that he hasn't seen these walls in over two decades now. "What the devil?" he mutters before grimacing as his attention is drawn to the unpleasant taste coating his mouth.

There's an empty bottle resting on the desk next to his elbow. And no glass. Which doesn't make any sense. He's never been a heavy drinker. He has a strict, self-imposed limit on his nightcap. He's witnessed too many folks drown inside their own bottles to have any desire to do so himself. A finger (on occasion, two) gets poured into his glass and the bottle gets safely put away out of sight. He doesn't leave it out and drain it dry. Except that's exactly what an empty bottle, missing cup, and pounding headache point to. And the once-puddle of vomit dried into the carpet next to his chair.

Filbrick's nose wrinkles in disgust. That's going to be a bear to get out.

He's no expert on alcohol consumption but it seems to him that ingesting that much could have easily ended in worse than a hangover. "I outta be dead," he half slurs, staring at the empty container. Something about the words catches and begins to bounce through his mind. He's missing something. Something big.

Filbrick stiffens as the answer comes to him. His heart had finally given out on him. He _had_ died. " _I ought to be dead_ ," he repeats in disbelief, "Why aren't I _dead_?"

The rest of his memory comes back in a rush, disorienting in its intensity and uncaring of his readiness for it.

There had been impossible, human-seeming beings, but they'd set off every danger warning in Filbrick's head.

They'd spoken to him. Something about regret. Their words had been clear but somehow he'd still had trouble comprehending what they'd been saying.

And then there was Stanley.

Young.

Scared.

Bag in hand.

Filbrick had nearly choked on the angry words crowding his throat.

And then there had been Maude.

And bawling like a babe.

Followed by drinking.

Lots of drinking.

"Why aren't I dead?" the man growls, shoving away from the desk and staggering to his feet.

He'd been ninety-two! He'd been more than ready for death to claim him. Had been for years. But here he is. With some unwarranted do-over.

What had he done to deserve this? Nothing! That's what! He didn't even _want_ it, dammit! Why not one of his sons? Why not Maude? Why not _anyone_ besides _him_? This is not what he'd signed up for!

Wasn't there supposed to be some final judgement that he would either pass or fail after he died? That's how he'd understood it. He hadn't been expecting _this_.

Unless this is the test?

Filbrick scowls. The thought doesn't seem right.

A knock on the office door cuts his thoughts off. "Filbrick?" Maude calls through the wood.

"Ma--" his throat closes up on him, producing little more than a wheeze, and he has to take a second before trying again, "Maude?"

The door opens to reveal his wife, face pinched and hands wringing in worry. "Fil, are you alright?"

"Yes." It's an automatic answer, spoken without thought and hardly convincing. Filbrick frowns. "No," he corrects but isn't happy with that answer, either. "I'll figure it out," he decides, stepping over the soiled patch of carpet.

Maude doesn't look reassured.

He can't blame her.


	3. Love and Marriage

"Fil," Maude says warily as she eyes the incriminating bottle on his desk, "how much did you drink last night?"

Filbrick grunts softly. His head is pounding. "Too much," he answers as he pushes past her, one hand, gentle but firm, placed over the woman's shoulder blade.

He heads directly for the bathroom. A few minutes spent emptying his bladder, rinsing out his mouth, and washing his face leaves him feeling a bit closer to human.

Filbrick sneers at his reflection. He looks like death warmed over. Appropriate, perhaps, but hardly respectable. He's left his sunglasses behind somewhere, probably his office, he notes with dissatisfaction. The man fishes his eyepatch from one of his suit's pockets before fumbling his way through tying it on. He's gotten too used to the elastic-banded type he thinks as runs his hands over his hair in a futile attempt to tame it. He spares another thought to acknowledge that it's been a long time since he had any hair on his scalp, let alone this much of it. He spies the stain decorating his right side which informs him that his nauseated stomach had claimed more than one victim. Pity, it seems like it was a good jacket. He'd probably liked it, once.

He eyes the edge of the mirror as his thoughts turn to the medicine cupboard tucked away behind the reflective surface. Booze and medicine aren't supposed to be mixed, but surely the alcohol has worked its way through his system by now? That's the whole reason a hangover is so miserable, isn't it? Filbrick decides he doesn't care. All things considered, he doesn't think he'll be _allowed_ to die so soon (Otherwise, wouldn't he have already managed it last night? Or... Wait. How full had the bottle been when he'd started? He can't seem to remember. Perhaps he hasn't imbibed quite as much as he thought. It's hard to tell.) after being sent back half-a-lifetime and he's already feeling like something scraped off the underside of the pier. Regardless, if he does die, he'll just be setting things to rights. He's _supposed_ to be dead, after all.

Filbrick plucks the pill bottle from the cabinet before he can think further on the subject. Technically, the pills he has in hand are meant for when his (lack of) eye starts bothering him. For all he knows, his eye is actually bothering him quite a bit right now. It's not like he can tell with the way his entire head is aching. The man swallows one of the pills and returns the bottle to its place.

He opens the door to find Maude still anxiously hovering on the other side.

She looks him up and down before speaking. "Stanley was worried you had a heart attack last night," Maude finally confides, "Did you?"

"No." It's an honest enough answer. The younger body he now inhabits has never fallen victim to a heart attack. And it likely won't for several more years, but it's never been acceptable to needlessly upset his wife, so he sees no reason to bring future events up now. After a moment's thought, Filbrick adds, "My heart's still beating fine. Don't fret about it, Maude."

The woman is silent as she trails after him. Filbrick digs through the fridge and discovers a container of leftover casserole. He's not hungry (He's still a bit queasy despite his stomach forcibly purging itself at some point, as a matter of fact.) but those pills aren't meant to be taken on an empty stomach. He'll regret it worse if he doesn't eat than he will if he chokes down _something_. He doesn't bother trying to re-heat it, simply grabs a fork, scoops a small portion onto a plate, and begins stubbornly chewing his way through the first bite.

"Stroke?"

Filbrick forces the mouthful down. "No. Stop fretting."

"Well, something happened to set you off!" Maude exclaims and Filbrick flinches at the volume, "And you're not telling me, so what 'm I supposed to do, Filbrick?"

The man frowns. He takes another bite as he thinks it over. "Last night was a shock, which lead to the drinking," he finally says, "and now I'm hungover. There's nothing you need to worry about."

"What shock?" Maude demands.

"I..." How to explain away the shock of being placed back into his own life after experiencing years of its future up to (and including) his death without getting himself carted off to the nearest loony bin? Filbrick picks his words carefully as he says, "Last night could have ended very differently and I realized I was halfway through making a large mistake." One he'd already made once and spent the rest of his days regretting. More quietly, he confesses, "I was a second away from kicking him out, Maude."

The woman frowns. "You wouldn't have gone that far," she denies, but her voice isn't as steady as it should be. They both know he'd been well on his way to doing exactly that.

He doesn't say anything more and neither does Maude. He finishes his meal in silence while Maude stands by his elbow in an awkward, anxious state of uncertainty. Filbrick places his plate in the sink and downs a glass of water before announcing, "I need to take a shower." He sighs as worried, green eyes continue to track his every movement. Filbrick places a hand under Maude's chin to tip her face up before kissing her. (He's a bit rusty, though how to kiss Maude isn't something he thinks he could ever _forget_. Not entirely. God, he's missed his wife.) "Just give me some time to sort myself out."

Maude hesitates for a moment but relents, "Alright, Filbrick. If you're sure."

"I'm sure. Focus on the boys if you need to fuss over someone. They'll appreciate it more, anyway."

Maude's unamused expression makes it clear that she isn't particularly pleased with this last bit of advice. Filbrick ignores that and kisses her again for no other reason than that it's been too long and she's right in front of him.

Her soft sigh as he pulls away lets him know he's done a better job of distracting her from her worries this time. It's a start.


	4. Out of the Bag

**Meanwhile**

Ford had been gone before he woke. Stan isn't surprised. His twin had been _pissed_ last night and Stanford wasn't the kind to forgive easily. His brother would probably give him the cold shoulder for _days_ before he finally cracked. And then they'd probably end up continuing their earlier fight.

Stan sighs as he stares at the underside of the top bunk's mattress and the supports that hold it up.

Maybe he should patch things up with Carla. It's been nearly a month, now; it's probably time to apologize whether he thinks he's wrong or not, right? It had been a stupid argument, anyway, and he misses his girlfriend. ~~He squashes the terrified voice in his head that questions if Carla even still considers herself his girlfriend.~~ Plus, if he can get Carla to forgive him, she'll likely help him with getting Ford to do the same. Of course, all of that will have to wait until his father decides to release him from what amounts to house arrest.

Stanley shifts uncomfortably and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and resting his feet on the carpet. It hadn't really registered at the time -- or, it had, but it hadn't sunk in yet -- but Filbrick had nearly kicked him out of the house last night. An argument could even be made that the man _had_ kicked him out, only to reverse the decision before Stan had managed to _go_ anywhere -- or even pick himself up from the sidewalk, for that matter.

Stanley eyes the bag shoved into the corner of his and Ford's shared closet. It had been pre-packed and ready to go. The damned thing even has his _name_ written on one end of it in thick marker.

The teenager cautiously approaches the duffel bag as if it might rear up and bite him. It certainly feels as if it could. Something like morbid curiosity pushes him to explore the bag's contents, however, and in the next second he's pulled the duffel closer and undone the zipper.

The bag's contents are packed neatly, not that Stanley would expect anything else from his father. Five separate outfits plus a lightweight coat, a cheap pair of shoes, a collection of canned foods, bottles of water, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a flashlight and extra batteries, a lighter, a pocketknife, a pair of brass knuckles, and -- in a discreet internal pocket that Stanley had nearly overlooked -- fifty dollars worth in bills of differing amounts.

Stan stares at the items, now spread out on the floor, and tries to untangle the knot of feelings in his chest. The collection is thorough, bordering on _thoughtful_ , and he doesn't know what to make of it. This bag had to have been packed well before last night. This wasn't some slapdash job. Had Pops been _planning_ to kick him out? For how long? Stan fights against the tears stinging his eyes and shakes his head in denial. There has to be another explanation. Pops wouldn't have changed his mind last minute on something he'd been planning for a long time.

The teenager takes a shaky breath. "Alright, Stan, think. You're smart enough to figure this out. Dad doesn't --" The words 'hate you' stick in his throat as he remembers the older man's rage, the way his father had manhandled him and then tossed him from the house entirely. The man had towered over him, unyielding form backlit by the light spilling out from the pawnshop's workroom and angry words echoing up and down the street. Stan forcefully pushes the memory away and reminds himself that he's sitting in the same room he's slept in for his whole life. He's still home. Filbrick had _stopped_. That has to count for something, too, doesn't it? Stan growls, frustrated with himself and his mixed up emotions. "He _doesn't_ hate you," the young man insists, "Dad was just angry because you messed up Ford's big break."

His gaze falls to rest on the brass knuckles resting on the carpet in front of him. Stan picks them up with a frown, turning them over a few times before slipping one of them on to test the feel of it. He remembers seeing them in the pawnshop months ago. He remembers trying to talk his father into letting him have them. Filbrick's answer had been a flat 'no.' The coveted knuckledusters had disappeared from the shop sometime before Stan had thought to make a second attempt at talking his father around into relenting. He'd assumed they'd been bought by a customer; but here they are, like some perverse consolation prize.

He recognizes most of the clothes as pieces that had disappeared from the wash at some point. Guess he knows where they got to, now. But... Stan's brow furrows. Some of Ford's clothes had vanished around the same time, hadn't they? He's pretty sure they had. (His twin had talked him into helping search the laundry room for an answer to the disappearing clothes mystery. They hadn't been successful in their sleuthing, at the time.)

Is there a matching bag with his twin's name on it? Stan's stomach fills with ice at the thought before he vehemently rejects it.

"No. No, Pops wouldn't do that. He, he _likes_ Ford. Ford actually does things that make Dad proud. Ford isn't the spare twin." The admission leaves a bitterness in his mouth but calms his nerves some. "Ford was wanted from the beginning. Ford isn't the _leech_." After last night, he can't keep denying the facts. The older man had spelled it all out far too clearly to allow Stanley to keep denying the truth.

He wants to be angry about that, part of him is, but it's hard to hold onto anger when there's so much dread working to smother it. Still, he's here, home, so maybe there's still a chance to fix things and change his father's mind.

His eyes wander over to the small stack of bills and Stan frowns. Fifty bucks. That's more than he usually has in his wallet at any one time. It's... a lot more than he'd expect his father to give 'a liar and a cheat' for any reason, actually. Did Filbrick even remember there was cash hidden away in the bag to begin with? And, more importantly, fifty dollars was enough to do something _impressive_ with, wasn't it? Would _that_ be enough to change the man's opinion of his worth? Maybe he could --

"Stanley?" his mother's voice calls through the closed door, "It's lunch time."

"Just a minute!" Stan calls back, half panicked. He rises swiftly, snatching up the banknotes as he goes and shoving them into his wallet before opening the door for Maude. "Hey, Ma," he greets.

"You don't look like you slept a wink," she accuses in a worried tone as Stanley accepts the plate of food from her hands.

Stan sits down on the edge of his bunk, takes a moment to consider the re-heated meatloaf that's been all-but-drowned in ketchup, and says, "I got some sleep, just not much." He shoves a forkful into his mouth and looks at his mother again. "It doesn't look like you got much, either."

Maude sighs and glances at the wall that separates Ford's and Stan's bedroom from Filbrick's office. "No," she agrees, "He didn't come to bed at all last night."

Stan tries not to flinch at the admission. He'd already known, of course. The apartment has thin walls and he'd listened to his father's mutterings late into the night, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Most of of it had been spoken lowly enough that the walls had managed to muffle the words beyond recognition. What little he had been able to make out, he hadn't understood.

Maude wrings her hands as she says, "I haven't seen him break down like that since... ever. I've never seen him like that before. Not even when your grandfather passed." She frowns, lips pinched into a worried curve and the tension around her eyes become just a little more pronounced.

"So, where's Ford?" Stanley asks just to change the subject and hopefully chase that expression from his mother's face. He can't help but feel like he's responsible for putting it there to begin with and he hates seeing her upset.

"Went to the library, early this morning," Maude answers, "I'm pretty sure he wanted out of the house as much as anything. I don't think he plans to be back until dinner. Leslie's taken Rachel out for the day, too." The emptied duffle bag and the items strewn across the carpet finally catch her attention. "Make sure you put everything back in the bag, Stanley. Your father will want it back. And don't try to swipe the cash," she warns, "We both know that will be the first thing he checks."

Stanley looks up at her and can't help the caught expression that covers his face. He swallows his latest forkful of tomato-drenched-meat and asks, "How'd you know?" He had thought he'd hidden away any evidence of his theft, but apparently he'd missed something. (Is it theft? It feels like it is with the way his mother is staring him down.)

Maude raises an eyebrow at her youngest son. "How do you think?"

"I, I don't know?" he stutters, a new fear joining those already threatening to crush him. Ma didn't want him gone, too, did she?

A groan drifts through the apartment from the direction of Filbrick's office and forestalls whatever the woman would have said in response. In the sudden silence, Stanley can just make out his father's voice, "What the devil?"

Maude immediately returns to looking worried. "It sounds like your father is finally awake," she comments, "I should check on him."

Before she can leave, Filbrick speaks again, "I outta be dead."

Stan and Maude both freeze at the simple sentence. The boy watches as his mother's face pales. He thinks his own may be doing the same thing.

" _I ought to be dead._ Why aren't I _dead_?" his father's voice asks, cutting through the suffocating quiet he'd caused only a moment before. Stan shudders at the genuine confusion in the man's tone.

Maude draws in a sharp breath and hurries out of the room.

"Why aren't I dead?" Filbrick is practically growling now.

Stanley sets his plate aside with shaking hands. He'd thought nothing could be more disturbing than listening to his father cry. He'd been wrong. This is much worse.

A series of quick knocks echo into the room from the hall. "Filbrick?" Ma calls, tone stressed and fretful.

A pause. And then, like he's been brought back to his senses and away from whatever momentary insanity had gripped him, the man replies, "Maude?"

"Fil, are you alright?" Stan hears his mother ask.

"Yes." A lie. "No." Too honest. "I'll figure it out." Stan relaxes the tiniest bit. That much, at least, sounds like his father.

"Fil, how much did you drink last night?" Ma's worry is practically tangible.

"Too much." Filbrick answers gruffly before both of his parents start to speak too quietly for Stanley to easily understand them.

Maybe if he focused harder he'd be able to follow the conversation. For once, Stanley finds he doesn't want to know what his parents are discussing. He gets up long enough to re-close the door his mother had left open in her hasty departure but he then crawls back into his bed, more because he isn't sure what else to do than anything.

For a few dearly needed minutes, Filbrick's and Maude's voices remain relatively calm and quiet. He can almost pretend that everything is normal. But then his mother's worry seems to reach its boiling point and she snaps, "Well, something happened to set you off! And you're not telling me, so what 'm I supposed to do, Filbrick?"

Stan holds his breath and strains his ears for the response, but, of course, it's said too lowly for him to catch. The one part of the conversation he actually wants to hear slips frustratingly past him in a soft rumble that he has no hope of deciphering.

Stanley scowls up at the top bunk. Just his luck.


	5. History's Lessons

There's two firm knocks on the door before it's opened without waiting for an answer. Filbrick Pines stands in the doorway, dressed as casually as he ever allows himself, with the first few buttons of his shirt undone and wearing his eyepatch rather than the thick, reflective sunglasses he prefers outside of the apartment. The man's missing hat and still-damp hair gives away the fact that he is fresh from the shower.

"Son," he says, "we need to have a talk."

Stan can't keep the nervousness from his voice as he returns, "Yes, Sir."

"Have you eaten yet?"

"Ma brought me lunch," the teen glances at his half-finished, ketchup-smeared plate of leftover meatloaf. He'd lost his appetite earlier but any excuse not to keep constant eye-contact with his father right now seems like a good one.

The man grunts, "Bring it with you." The older Pines frowns as he spots the duffel bag and Stanley's sloppy re-packing of it. "And that," he adds with a rough gesture, "It'll need to be repacked properly before it gets stored again."

Stan watches as the man walks away, tracing the sound of the heavy tread to the dining table near the apartment's kitchen. The teenager forces himself to breathe and trails after him, his plate in his hands and the bag slung over one shoulder.

"Sit down. Eat your food," Filbrick directs and then relieves Stanley of the duffel. His father remains standing as he begins to pull the contents from the bag, apparently intent on fixing Stan's lackluster job right now at the table. Nothing more is said for a long moment and the sound of the metal fork scraping over the ceramic plate seems too loud in the hushed apartment. Eventually, Filbrick breaks the silence with a question, "Is this all of it?"

Stan looks up from the remains of his lunch to see his father counting out the bills from the hidden pocket. "O-of course," he stutters, suddenly unsure. He hadn't miscounted when he'd retrieved the money from his wallet, had he?

Filbrick grunts softly in acknowledgement as he finishes counting the banknotes and slips them back where they belong.

Stan watches as the man continues with his task. He can't keep silent any longer. "How long have you had that bag packed for me?"

Filbrick glances up at him, lone eye bloodshot but steady. The man shrugs, going back to folding clothes. "A couple weeks after you were born."

" _W-what?_ "

The man shrugs again. "Your mother and I weren't expecting twins," he says, "You know that."

"That," his voice cracks and he tries again, "that long?" He isn't going to cry. He isn't going to cry. He isn't going to --

"I was too busy to put it together sooner," Filbrick says.

The strangled gasp he fails to stop gains his father's notice immediately.

Filbrick stops in his task and suddenly turns his undivided attention to his son. The man squints as he considers the younger male critically, taking in too many telling details and judging every flaw found. Stanley watches as the man's brows furrow and his mouth starts to tip down at the corners. "You look like you're about to cry," the man states bluntly.

Stan draws in a sharp breath and looks away as he struggles to avoid doing just that. His arms wrap tightly over his chest like he thinks he can literally hold himself together that way.

Filbrick groans softly and mutters, "Your mother is better at these things."

The teen beats back the hysterical laugh that wants to escape him. Filbrick Pines hates dealing with any sort of strong emotions. Those are words Stanley has grown up with and, currently, they seem like the only familiar thing he has left to cling to. A part of him wants to ask where Ma has disappeared to; another part of him knows if he opens his mouth now there's a good chance he'll end up bawling like a child over a skinned knee.

There's a long pause before his father speaks again.

"Stan." Wrong. That's _wrong_. Not just the strangely hesitant tone, but the shortening of his name. His father doesn't use nicknames. He always uses full given names and titles ~~or else insults~~. It's always Maude, and Sherman, and Stanford, and Stanley. Never is it simply Ma, or Shermie, or Ford, or Stan. ~~Or, sometimes, it's you knucklehead, you ignoramus, you idiot.~~ "What do you think the bag is for?"

Stan opens his eyes (When had he closed them?) in time to see his father pull one of the chairs closer to the one he's using before sitting down, himself.

The teen swipes a hand over his wet cheeks hurriedly, like Filbrick hasn't already seen the display of weakness. "I, I don't know," he tries, unable to hold eye contact with his father, "I g-guess it's so you can get r-rid of me faster."

The older male scoffs. "I wouldn't bother having a bag ready for that. I could kick your ass out without giving you a damned thing if I really wanted you gone," he says in perfect frankness and the teenager flinches. When the teen doesn't offer another guess, Filbrick sighs and asks, "Have you ever seen what happens when a building goes up in a fire, Stan?"

He tries his best to ignore the second shortening of his name. It just doesn't sound right coming from his father. "I-it burns up, doesn't it?" He sniffles against the way his nose is trying to drip. "Guess it probably collapses af-after enough of it burns away."

"You're not wrong," Filbrick says gruffly, "You likely don't realize how quickly it can happen, though. Under the right circumstances. The real problem is how fast the fire can spread. It's a race against the clock to grab what you can and get out before the escape routes get blocked off.

"Your grandfather used to have a large house in the Twenties. Probably earlier than that, though I'm not sure when he bought it. It burned down in Thirty-Four. No one died, but the whole family went from living in a nice house to living out of your grandfather's Model A in the middle of the depression. Came out of it with little more than the clothes on our backs, the car, and however much gas had been in it at the time. Not counting a few years at the tail end of the depression, we rode the rest of it out in that car.

"I'll never forget what it was like to watch it all burn," he reflects, eye unfocused as he recalls bygone events, "The heat of it, especially."

Filbrick blinks and comes back to himself. Stanley has to shake himself from his own stupor. It isn't often his father speaks of his past and the short story (such as it was; Ma's tales always have a lot more flare to them.) had been enough to distract him from what had been overwhelming him in the present. The man refocuses on his son and says, "That's why there are bags. There's one for everyone who lives in the building. I gave Sherman his when he moved out. I made one for Leslie when she moved in, and another one for Rachel a few months later. I'll likely be giving Stanford his in a few months once he's ready to go to whatever college he ends up at." The man's mouth twist unhappily. "Which brings us back to the fact that we need to talk about what you did to your brother."

Stanley shifts uncomfortably in his chair. There's an odd mix of relief and dread warring in his chest at this point. On the one hand, his father hasn't been _planning_ to kick him out for years. On the other, however, the man had still come very close to doing just that only hours ago and now they're going to revisit the issue that had nearly caused it. Still, he knows there's only one response he can give. Only one response he's _allowed_ to give.

So, reluctantly, he says, "Yes, Sir."


	6. Consequences

Filbrick nods, rises from the chair, and goes back to re-packing Stanley's duffel bag. He folds the last pair of pants and begins tucking other items into the bag's confines in such a manner that they'll be somewhat protected from damage. "You want to tell me what you were doing anywhere near Stanford's project?"

"I..." the youth swallows and continues, "I don't know. I just went where my feet took me."

"Into a locked building?"

"I could break into that place in my sleep," Stan scoffs. Filbrick raises his gaze from his task long enough to give his son an unimpressed look. The boy wilts under the disapproving stare. "The locks they have at school are garbage! Anyone could get in!"

Filbrick rolls his singular eye. "It's not 'anyone's' actions I care about."

A pause and then a quiet, "Yes, Sir." He can hear Stanley fidgeting in his seat. "I didn't mean to break it, Pops. I swear I didn't! I just, I needed to blow off some steam and I ended up at school. Next thing I know, I'm standing in the gym and Ford's project is there and I'm angry and, and I..."

It's been over four decades since the incident -- from his perspective -- but he never did hear Stan's side of things. He'd lost his temper and the boy had failed to come back like Filbrick had thought he would. And then he had, but he'd been busy pretending to be Stanford and Filbrick had been afraid to find out what would happen if he called the bluff. He supposes he could have tried asking sometime this past year, but by then it hadn't mattered anymore, for several reasons. Stan's memory being what it was, his son may not have even remembered. He would -- and _had_ \-- let the issue go, except it's suddenly relevant again.

"And you what?" he prompts, trying to remain patient. He's going to get this part _right_ , this time.

"Please, Dad, you gotta believe me! I didn't mean to break it! I hit the _table_ , but then it started smoking and this little piece fell off! I put the piece back on and the smoke stopped pouring outta it and it was still spinning -- That's what it's supposed to do, right? Spin? -- so I thought it was fine! But then Ford comes home after his presentation schtick and he says it _wasn't_ spinning. I thought I fixed it! Honest! I didn't, I didn't mean to --"

Filbrick glances up when the boy cuts off. There are more tears in his eyes. The man scowls and zips up the bag. The duffel bag is properly re-packed. Stan's explanation has been complete enough to fill in a few of the blanks and confirm some of the assumptions he's made over the years. That leaves one last, far more difficult, task in front of him to be taken care of.

The man rounds the table and catches Stan's chin. "Look at me," he orders when the boy keeps his eyes downcast. He ignores the tears that fall as his son reluctantly obeys. "What you did was stupid and hurt the family. Your brother, in particular," he says flatly. Stanley flinches. "I'm not getting in the middle of that. You two are old enough to settle your own squabbles. But you're grounded until New Year's."

"W-what? That's over eight months!" Filbrick levels an unimpressed expression at his youngest son and holds his stony silence until the boy quails. "Y-yes, Sir."

"Straight to school and back for the rest of the school year. And the beginning of the next one, probably." Stanley winces at that. Technically, this is his senior year. Realistically, his grades when he isn't cheating off Stanford point to a likelihood that he won't pass his final exams this year. "When you aren't at school, you'll be working the shop for me. That includes this summer." Stanley groans quietly but doesn't protest otherwise. Normally, the pawnshop runs on a standard nine-to-five schedule. During the summer, when the New Jersey shores are packed with tourists, Filbrick extends that time to an exhausting twelve-hour workday from nine-in-the-morning to nine-in-the-evening. "You can keep your weekends, provided you don't manage to land yourself in any more trouble."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good," Filbrick releases Stan, "Go enjoy your freedom while it lasts, but don't stay out so late you worry your mother." Translation: be home before dark or you can kiss next weekend's freedom goodbye.

Stanley nods and stands. "Yes, Sir." He hesitates before taking a step forward, wrapping his arms around his father's waist, and burying his face in the older man's shoulder. The elder Pines stiffens instantly. "'M sorry," Stan mumbles.

Filbrick forces his muscles to lose some of their tension, and, though he can't quite bring himself to relax entirely, he awkwardly returns his son's hug. One arm finds its way around Stan's back while the opposite hand ends up in the boy's hair.

It seems to be some kind of cue Filbrick hadn't intended to give as Stanley bursts into loud sobs. The man flinches at the noise as his headache, once nicely dulled to a somewhat bearable ache, returns with a vengeance. He makes to pull away but Stan only clings to him tighter as soon as he moves. Filbrick sets his jaw and stays put. After a moment, although he's sure his son won't be able to hear over his own crying, the man grumbles, "Your mother is better at these things."

Maude shuffles out of their bedroom nearly a full minute later, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. Stan's crying must have woken her from the nap Filbrick had convinced her to take. The woman pauses in the hallway once she opens her eyes. She then blinks, rubs her eyes again, and generally makes a large show of her disbelief.

Filbrick glances upwards in exasperation before meeting her gaze, "Well? What is it?"

Maude shrugs as she creeps closer. "Nothing, just never thought I'd see the day Filbrick Pines didn't run the other way at the first sign of tears." The woman rubs one of their son's shoulders but the teen remains largely oblivious to everything.

"I didn't have much choice," Filbrick huffs before stating, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, Maude."

"You're doing fine, honey," Maude reassures, "He'll cry himself out eventually."

"Is there a faster option than 'eventually'?" he asks without much hope.

She looks him square in the eye, and, with a frankness more characteristic of himself than it is of her, she says, "No."

The man sighs. "Of course not," he grumbles in discontent.

Maude looks up at her husband. "You scared us all last night, Fil. Don't hold this against him. He just needs to let it out." She tactfully doesn't mention how just hours earlier _he_ had been the one weeping and making a spectacle of himself.

Filbrick scowls and looks away as he admits, "There are a few things worth tears."


	7. Future Plans

Stan spares a glance at the sun's position in the sky. He has maybe an hour before he needs to head right back home. He hopes that will be enough time to smooth things over with Carla. His hand only shakes a little as he rings the doorbell.

Carla's younger sister is the one who answers the door. Fantastic. She's never liked him and he doubts her opinion of him has gotten any better in his absence. The redhead wrinkles her nose as she recognizes him. "You're back," she says, an unhappy twist to her lips, "What do you want?"

"Hey, Cassie," he says with a fake smile, "Is Carla home?"

The girl eyes him with an unimpressed expression that even his father might approve of. "She's cooking dinner right now. Try again some other time, Stan," she says, "Or don't. My sister doesn't need some delinquent --" He is one-hundred percent sure she picked that particular wording up from her own father. "-- that disappears on her for months at a time."

That's an exaggeration. It's been weeks, but not _months_ , since he last stopped by. Still, standing here and arguing the point with an opinionated fourteen-year-old isn't going to get him anything. "Look," he tries, patience already strained after the past twenty-four hours' events, "I just need to talk to her, okay?"

He can tell that Cassie's about three seconds from slamming the door in his face and he starts plotting his strategy to force his way past the miniature gatekeeper when Carla's voice suddenly calls out, "Cassie? Who's at the door?"

Cassie glares up at him defiantly before yelling back into the house, "No one important! Just the neighborhood shyster!"

" _Hey!_ "

The redhead glances back at him and the look on her face dares him to refute her claim. "Would you prefer 'charlatan'?" she asks.

Carla appears in the hall behind her sister before any more can be said. "Stanley? Hi," she greets him a bit awkwardly but hurriedly wipes her hands off on the bottom of her apron before untying the garment and slipping it off. "Do you think you can finish up for me, Cassie?" she asks as she holds out the apron.

Cassie scowls, shooting another distrustful glance Stan's way. "I'm not inept," the girl grumbles. She snatchs the stained cloth from her older sibling, spins on her heel, and marches off in the direction of the kitchen.

Carla waits until her sister is out of sight before turning back to Stan with a soft sigh. Her face takes on an amused expression when she notices the toe of his shoe planted just inside the doorway before she gently herds him away from the entrance so she can join him outside. Carla closes the door behind herself before she begins speaking, "Listen, Ley, I've thought a lot about --"

"I'm sorry!" Stan blurts, unable to wait through Carla's rambling and a bit afraid of where it may go if he doesn't get out what he came to say first, "It was a stupid thing to get angry at you over. I know I shoulda been here to apologize weeks ago, but I'm here now. Please, Baby, can we just put it behind us?"

Carla wrings her hands nervously but takes a small step toward him. "I haven't changed my mind, you know. I'd still make the same choices," she warns.

"I figured, and I think maybe I understand now --" Or maybe he still doesn't. Carla's family is pretty different from his own. "-- but even if I don't, I promise I won't make a big deal out of it again."

Carla tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and searches his face. Then, softly, "Alright."

Stanley sighs in relief and pulls his girlfriend into his arms. One of his hands cups her cheek. "I missed you," he whispers.

"I missed you, too," she whispers back. Her left hand falls to rest on the curve of his shoulder; meanwhile, her right hand settles at the back of his neck and her fingers begin playing with the short hairs there. That's as much of an invitation as he's willing to wait for. Stanley closes the few remaining inches between them.

Stan spends several long seconds enjoying his girlfriend's lips before he pulls away long enough to catch the her hips and lift. Carla yelps in surprise and he can feel her fingers fist in his shirt before he sets her down on the handrail that cages in her home's raised doorstep.

"Really, Ley?" she asks once she regains her balance, hands on his shoulders and knees pressing into his waist, but her tone is teasing and her pretty blue eyes are practically shining.

" _Yes_ ," he all-but-growls in response. His mouth falls on her neck and his hands run up and down her sides greedily.

"Oh," comes her soft half-moan. "Someone's feeling randy," she says, stating the obvious.

He might be pushing things along a little quickly, he realizes, but he's also working on a time limit. This reunion won't last half so long as he'd like for it to and he won't be able to see her again until the next weekend rolls around. So he isn't about to waste a second of it.

"Sorry," he grumbles without much conviction, now planting small kisses along the contour of her blouse's collar.

Carla shakes her head, her voice becoming breathy as she says, "We've talked about this."

Stan grins up at her. "Don't think I could hide from you if I wanted to, Hotpants," he answers before craning his neck to capture her lips again. Carla hums in approval as he kisses her. They break apart eventually and Stan can't stop himself from adding, "Speaking of, you're not wearing them today." He'd be lying if he claimed he wasn't disappointed by that. Carla allows him to let his hands wander where they will but trying to move any of her hemlines or sneak past them is strictly off the table, and the long skirt she's currently wearing is blocking his access to the most amazing set of legs he's ever seen.

Carla smirks down at him. "Well, my boyfriend hasn't been around recently, so I haven't had much of a reason to wear them so often. Maybe you should have called ahead. I might have worn a different outfit today if I'd have known you'd be stopping by."

Stanley groans. She doesn't wear them just for his benefit, of course, and he isn't foolish enough to believe otherwise, but she'd started wearing them _a lot_ more regularly after certain rules had been established in their relationship. Being reminded of that little fact is more of a turn-on than he can afford right now.

"Don't tease," he begs, "I can't stay long."

"Oh?" she frowns, expression just shy of turning into a pout, "Why not?"

"Right," Stan says, instantly nervous again, "So, uh, that's the other thing I came over to tell you."

"Stanley?" she prompts worriedly after he lets the silence stretch for too many seconds.

Best to get it over quickly, he decides. "I'm grounded," he blurts gracelessly, "For eight months."

"Eight _months_!" Carla exclaims in shock, nearly falling off the handrail before she rights herself. "Stanley Pines, what did you _do_?" she demands with wide eyes.

"It's not important," he tries.

"'Not important,'" the girl repeats in disbelief, "You get yourself grounded for _eight months_ and somehow what you did to earn it is 'not important.'"

"Okay, so it was kinda important," he admits, "but I really don't want to talk about it right now, Carla. _Please._ " He feels scrubbed raw from the inside out over breaking Ford's project, as it is. He doesn't want to get Carla's two cents on top of everyone else's about how much he screwed up. Not today, at least.

Dissatisfaction and sympathy war against each other on Carla's face for a long moment before she sighs and says, "Alright, we don't need to go into it right this second. But I'm going to expect an explanation at some point."

Stanley groans quietly and leans forward to rest his forehead on his girlfriend's shoulder. "I'm sure Ford'll be more than happy to tell you all about it the next time you see him," he mutters, "Just..." He grimaces as he thinks about how exactly his twin is likely to relay the tale. Stan lifts his head so that he can meet Carla eyes. "It was an accident," he says desperately, "Whatever Ford tells you, I didn't break it on purpose!"

Carla's brow furrows. "You and Ford are fighting?" she asks.

"I, uh, yeah," he answers cautiously. He doesn't like the expression she's wearing.

She scowls and looks away to glare at the brick facade of her house. Tersely, she says, "Please don't tell me you're only here because you're lonely."

"What? No! No, no, no!" He's horrified when he realizes there are tears gathering along her lashes. "Don't cry, Baby, please. C'mon, Carla, it's not, it's not the _only_ reason I'm here." It's the wrong thing to say. Carla draws a sharp breath and her fingers twitch on his shoulders. Stan's panic builds as he watches a tear streak down her cheek. "I, I mean, I guess maybe that's part of it but I, uh, that is --" Why is it he only seems to be able to _upset_ people lately?

"L-look," he starts over, trying another tack, "I shoulda apologized weeks ago, and I know that, and I'm _sorry_ it took me so long. Okay? I was being stupid about it. But I... I've had a coupla rough days and I guess it was the kick in the pants I needed to finally realize how easy it is to lose someone you care about. And, yeah, me and Ford are fighting, but I'm sure it will blow over in a few days!" He's not, but he's also not willing to look at what will happen if it doesn't blow over soon. "A-anyway, it kinda hit me this morning that both of you were angry with me -- A-and, you're right. It's lonely. -- and it may be too early to get Ford to listen to me -- You know how he is. -- but it's been a long time between _us_ and I realized you might not want to listen to me, either, if I kept puttin' off apologizing. I spent the whole ride over here hoping I hadn't already waited too long. I, I haven't, have I?"

Carla finally turns back to him and he takes the opportunity to wipe her tears away with his thumbs. "I'm sorry I upset you, Baby. I didn't mean to. I'll figure things out with Ford. I promise that isn't why I'm here." Any thoughts he may have had of asking Carla to help him talk Stanford around to forgiving him have officially been discarded. He isn't that stupid, thanks.

The girl draws a shaky breath to calm herself. Wet, blue eyes bore into his as she says, "I forgive you." Her tone is stubborn, like she's telling herself as much as she's telling him, but that's more than he's gotten from anyone in what already feels like forever and hearing the words has a greater affect on him than he would have thought.

He's kissing her again almost before he knows what he's doing. "I love you," he pants between kisses, "You know that, right?" Another kiss. "So much." More kissing, to the point where it's starting to feel like he might drown in her. He thinks he would be okay with that if it happened. Making out with Carla, here, in this moment, seems like the only thing going right in his life anymore.

Carla eventually breaks away, burying her face in his neck and taking sharp, gasping breaths. Stan isn't much better off, indulging in his own greedy inhales in the search for more oxygen.

"When do you need to leave?" Carla asks once her breathing has returned to something approaching normal.

Stan considers the stretching shadows surrounding them and reluctantly admits, "Now." Carla releases an unhappy groan and her arms tighten around him. He doesn't think that should cheer him up as much as it does, but it feels good to know that at least one person still wants him around. Stanley hides his growing smile in his girlfriend's hair as he takes in the coming dusk. "I'll be back Saturday," he promises in a whisper.

He can't see her face but he can feel Carla frown through his t-shirt. "I thought you said you were grounded?"

"Pops isn't completely heartless," he tells her, "Weekdays are gonna be a bust until New Year's, but he's letting me keep my weekends for whatever I want. So, I'll be back here to annoy your family every Saturday for the rest of the year!"

Carla giggles. "I'm sure Daddy and Cassie will be thrilled," she says, a smirk tilting her lips.

"Oh, totally," he says, because it's easier to joke about it and it's been too long since he's seen Carla's smile. Sweet Moses, how is it he's only now realizing just _how much_ he's been missing her? "They'll want to celebrate, don't you think? It's practically a holiday at the end of every week!"

"The weekend is already a weekly holiday, Ley," Carla tells him as she rolls her eyes, but her smile continues to blossom as he hams it up.

Stanley keeps going, "We'll have to rename it something more appropriate, of course. I was thinking 'Stanturday.'"

"Pfft. No."

"You're right, no sense being coy about it," he agrees, "It'll just have to be Stanleyday."

"Not a chance, Knucklehead," she laughs, wearing a full-blown grin now.

"C'mon, Hotpants," he grins back as he cajoles, "tell me you're looking forward to seeing me next Stanleyday."

Carla shakes her head. " _I_ will see _you_ next _Saturday_ at eight _sharp_ ," she says, "and you'd better not be late, buster."

"Yes, ma'am," he returns eagerly.

"Good. Now then," Carla steals a too-quick kiss before pushing him away and hopping down from her perch, "you need to get going before you get in any more trouble."

Stanley sighs, "Alright. I'll see you soon, Carla-Baby."

"Goodbye, Stanley," Carla says softly. She delays long enough to kiss his cheek as she passes him before slipping back into the house and closing the door behind her.

Stan hums to himself as he walks back to his car. He tries not to think too much about what's waiting at home for him as he drives. He'd rather enjoy his good mood while it lasts.


	8. Of Twins and Brothers

He'd left early this morning and stayed away all day, but he needs to go home at some point and putting it off any longer than he already has would likely land him in hot water. He'd spent a few hours at the library, but, it being Sunday, the building hadn't been open for long. Most of his day had actually been spent loitering on the beach.

At one point, he had stared long and hard at the Stan O' War and wondered if destroying it would make anything better. An eye for an eye, and all that. He'd thought about snatching a matchbook from one of the nearby bars and watching the craft go up like kindling. In the end, he hadn't been able to reach a decision and the boat remained unscathed. For now.

Ford enters the Pines Pawns building through the backdoor and is surprised to find his father downstairs. "Dad?"

Filbrick glances back at him from where he's rummaging through the under-stairs closet. "Stanford," the man greets, voice even and tone flat. The teen relaxes some at the return to normalcy. The silence stretches on long enough that the boy is about to leave for the apartment but then Filbrick speaks again, "Come here. You're old enough you ought to know where the emergency bags are."

"Emergency bags?" he repeats, coming to stand at his father's shoulder.

The man grunts an affirmative in response. "Something happens -- a fire, a storm surge, whatever else -- you grab yours and you get out of the building. Should be enough in it to last you at least a few days. A few weeks, if you're clever about it."

Ford stares at the pile of similar bags stacked together. There's one for everyone, even Rachel, and he notes that Stanley's has been returned to the collection. It's probably what his father had been doing when he came in. (He hates that as angry as he is at Stanley, he's relieved to know his brother hadn't been singled out in such a way. He hates that some part of him thinks that their father is capable of such a thing.) "There are two with your name?" it's a statement but the question behind it is clear enough.

Filbrick shrugs a shoulder. "One matches the rest; the other has additional supplies. The head of a household is responsible for more than himself. The second bag has a tent, more funds, copies of important paperwork, other things." He's quiet for a second before adding, "Pretty sure your mother stuck an entire photo album in there."

"Oh." Ford taps the fingers of his left hand against the doorway of the closet in contemplation as he eyes the bag with his own name on it. He'd eat his shoes if Stanley didn't go through his bag while he had it in his possession, but Ford hadn't had a chance to look for himself. He doubts there's anything really _interesting_ in the bags, but still.

Filbrick grunts again. "Go ahead, there's enough time before dinner to go through it."

Ford glances at the man before ducking his head in embarrassment. He hadn't realized he was being so obvious in his curiosity. He still grabs the bag in question and follows Filbrick up to the apartment.

The man sits down, crosses his arms over his chest, and then tips his head to indicate the chair across from him. Ford settles in quickly, setting the bag down on the tabletop and tugging open the zipper. "Hi, Ma," he greets distractedly.

"Hello, sweetheart," Maude returns as she stirs the pot on the stove. It looks (and smells) like they'll be having soup for dinner tonight. She frowns when she looks over and spies the bag. "What do you have that out for?"

"Boy wanted to look through it," Filbrick answers before Ford can, "I didn't see any reason not to let him."

"I can think of one," Maude mutters as she goes back to tending the pot in front of her.

"He knows better than to treat it like a toy," Filbrick dismisses his wife's misgivings.

Ford doesn't have to wonder about the exchange for long. He pulls two neatly-folded shirts off of the top to discover a gun resting in the center of the bag. "This is mine?" he asks as he pulls the pistol free of its holster, hands already working through the familiar routine. Safety on, no magazine, chamber clear. Ford twists in his chair and points the handgun at an empty corner in the room as he checks the sights.

"Once you move out, and not a day sooner," Filbrick says, "barring disasters that put us out of the apartment."

"Right," he mumbles. He'd like a chance to fire it a few times, but that wouldn't happen tonight even if his father was willing to gift the pistol to him directly.

"Woah! There wasn't one of those in my bag." Ford jerks to look over at the landing before remembering the weapon in his hands and freezing in position.

"Stanley," he says shortly, caught in an awkward half-turn with the gun thankfully still pointed toward the same wall he'd been aiming at earlier. Stanford carefully slips the pistol back into its holster and sets the items down on top of the shirts he'd already pulled from the bag.

Filbrick gives him a shallow nod of acknowledgement for his trouble. Ford wonders if he's only imagining the approval that he thinks might also be hidden in the gesture. The man turns his attention to the other twin. "You're not ready for one," the man says as Stan joins them at the table.

"But Ford gets one? How is that fair? We're the same age!" Stanley sets a hand on the backrest of the chair next to the one Ford is sitting in. Stanford glares up at his twin until his brother's expression turns nervous and he moves to claim the seat on their father's other side, instead. _Good_.

"I don't recall saying anything about _age_ ," Filbrick states bluntly, "Just that _you_ aren't ready to own a gun." The silent 'but Stanford is ready' is clear for all that it remains unsaid. The sentiment helps soothe some small hurt from last night he hadn't realized had been caught up in the rest of it.

"I still don't like the idea of any of you boys having guns," Maude puts in.

"Woman, _what_ are you so afraid of?" Filbrick asks with a scowl, "We didn't raise serial killers and we didn't raise fools. He'll probably never even fire the damned thing outside of the range!"

"I've seen what they can do, is all," Ma says unhappily.

His father's expression softens. "They're not going to get caught up in all of that," he says in what passes for a reassuring tone when used by one Filbrick Pines.

"They'd better not," the woman returns firmly.

Ford feels like there's more to the exchange between his parents than he's privy to. He glances over at Stan to check that he's not the only one out of the loop before remembering that he's angry -- _furious_ \-- with his twin and immediately looking away again. He decides to continue digging through the contents of his emergency bag to distract himself.

The cleaning kit for the gun (a smaller, less extensive kind than he's used to working with, but sensible given its intended purpose here) gets pulled out next, along with the magazine (already loaded) that had been missing from the pistol. There are several other small items clustered together in the relatively protected center of the bag. That makes sense, he supposes. He frowns as he discovers -- or, rather, fails to discover -- something in the collection. "There's no can opener," he says. Cans and cans of food but no ready way to get into them. It seems like a logic failure, but such an obvious failure in logic doesn't line up with his father's character.

Filbrick gives an unhurried shrug. "It's in my bag. No need to waste space packing multiples of _that_ ," he states, "And the pocket knife would work in a pinch, if nothing better is available."

Ford nods and gives the collection of items a second inspection. His attention catches on the flashlight when he glimpses handwritten words running down its body in permanent marker. His face flushes as he reads his father's four words of instruction: 'NOT FOR NIGHT READING'

The teen protests, "I wouldn't --" Filbrick meets his gaze blandly. He doesn't say a word but somehow he still manages to make Stanford feel foolish. (Alright, he might have something of a tendency to stay up too late reading; but he'd like to think he could rein in the habit during an emergency situation, at least!) The young man clears his throat instead of finishing his sentence and shoves the flashlight back into the bag before his twin or mother can ask about it.

Stanford thumbs through the neatly folded clothes. Most he recognizes as having disappeared from his wardrobe in the past twelve months or so, but there are a few he's uncertain he's ever seen before. "Oh! I've been looking for this," the young man remarks before he glances up at his father and asks, "If I get a different shirt to replace it with, can I keep this one?"

Filbrick jerks his chin the direction of the hallway that leads to the apartment's bedrooms. "Go on," he says.

"Thank you," Ford says the words automatically, grabbing the shirt in question and leaving to fulfill the task. He's barely made it to the door of his and Stan's shared room when he hears his father speak again.

"You really think you should be doing that," Ford looks back, startled, but the man continues, "considering what happened the last time you touched something of Stanford's without permission?"

Stanley. He's talking to _Stanley_ , Ford realizes before he feels his temper threatening to flare up again. Can't he have anything for himself? Why does his twin always need to include himself in everything?

Ford watches as Stan freezes before he quickly withdraws his hand from where it had been reaching for -- The gun. Of course it had been the gun. Ford got something that Stan didn't, so of course his twin had to invite himself to it. "No, Sir," Stanley says, ducking his head and folding his hands in his lap, "Sorry, Sir."

Some of Ford's temper cools at his twin's actions. He hasn't seen Stanley behave that meekly in... A year, at least. (And, honestly, it had probably been longer than that.) Well, _good._ Maybe that means Stan actually has some understanding of how big his latest screw up really is, then. Stanford enters their shared room and rifles through the closet for a shirt he doesn't particularly care about. ~~For a second he thinks about grabbing one of Stanley's t-shirts, maybe the black one, but then he brushes the childish thought away.~~

He returns to the table with a less favored shirt than the one he'd reclaimed. Ford returns the few things he'd actually removed from the bag and is about to close it up when Stan asks, "What about the pocket?"

Ford reluctantly looks up at his brother with a frown. He doesn't want to speak to Stanley any more than is absolutely necessary. Petty, perhaps, but he doesn't feel the need to 'play nice' with his twin after what he's done. Still, he is curious.

Stan caves under his stare before Ford caves to his curiosity. "On the inside," he mutters and breaks eye contact. Strangely enough, his gaze darts toward their father.

"There's two of them," Filbrick corrects, even as Ford begins the search for the pocket he'd overlooked.

"Wait," Stan says, "I only saw one in my bag."

"Then you didn't look very hard."

Stanley pouts; Ford doesn't have to look up to know that he is. He has to agree with their father, though, if his twin really had missed the second pocket. The two are in mirroring positions, after all. (He assumes all the bags are identical. They seemed to be rather uniform in their pile under the stairs.)

"Okay, the first one is cash. I found that one. What's in the other?"

Just like his brother, Ford manages to open the one containing the money first. He counts out fifty dollars before slipping the funds back where they belong. That's more generous than he'd expected from his budget-conscious father. Frankly, he'd have been far less surprised if there hadn't been any money in the bag at all. He knows better than to comment on it, though.

"Photographs," the man says. His voice is just a bit gruffer than usual, which Ford has learned means the man is somehow uncomfortable. If he had to guess, he thinks the older male might be embarrassed. "It's... preferable to have something... sentimental." Best to make that 'very embarrassed.' Ford keeps the observation to himself. "I left that part to your mother."

"Ma?" Stan asks.

"Oh, sure," the woman answers with a grin, "I had a hand in picking the clothes that went into the bags, too, for that matter."

There are four photos in total.

The first is of him and Stanley the day after they found the _Stan O' War_. They're all of eleven-years-old, shirtless and sunburned but with wide eyes and large smiles on their young faces as they show off their newest discovery to their mother. Ford frowns at the image and flips it to the back.

The next image has to be of one of his debates with Carla, though he can't tell which one from the photo alone. It's probably about _Galaxy Trek_ , though. They usually are. The two of them are seated on the couch in front of the television. Well, Ford is seated. Carla is half-reclined across the entire portion of the furniture that Stanford isn't using and leaning against his side rather than the backrest. Her hands are a blur of motion in the photograph as she explains her argument. The Ford of the picture frowns thoughtfully as he tries to follow her logic. Stanford hasn't seen her in nearly a month thanks to that fight of Stan's and hers. He resists the urge to glare at his twin and flips the photograph to the back of the stack.

The third was taken at last year's New Jersey Science Fair. He'd managed to get second place and qualified to go to the national level, but he hadn't gone. (Between the cost, the time away from work, and the amount of driving, his father had shot the idea down. Everyone else in the family had been pretty well sick of science fairs by that point, too.) He's certain there's a version of just him, his project, and the trophy, but, of course, his mother has opted to put in the picture after that, where Stanley had insisted on inserting himself. Ford's frown grows into a full-blown scowl. He flips to the last picture.

Stanford's brewing anger dissipates instantly. The final photo is from Shermie's high school graduation. He and Stan are just shy of being nine. Ford has stolen Sherman's graduation cap and is perched on his older brother's shoulders. Stan somehow managed to steal Shermie's graduation gown and is caught in the older boy's arms, the gown trailing several inches past Stanley's dangling feet. Everyone's smiling. Even Filbrick seems happy where he's standing off to the side with a laughing Ma to his left. Ford feels tears beginning to form in his eyes.

He misses his older brother. He misses Sherman.


	9. Epiphany

The sound of a sniffling nose draws Filbrick's attention away from the conversation between Maude and Stanley. He turns to look at his other son just in time to watch as the boy uses his shirtsleeve to wipe tears from his face. Filbrick frowns. He supposes there's been more than enough reasons to cry over the last twenty-four hours, but he can't see anything that would have prompted tears _now_ and not earlier.

Stanford flushes under the older man's steady gaze. He holds out the small collection of photos to his father. After the man accepts the pictures, the teen admits in little more than a whisper, "I miss Shermie."

He may as well have screamed the words. Everyone freezes and it's quiet enough in the room to hear a pin drop. Filbrick stares at the image in his hands and suddenly realizes several things in rapid succession.

He's back in time, reliving his life.

The year is 1970.

He's stopped himself from kicking Stanley out of the house.

He's been dealing with the fallout of those actions.

He should have been focused on something else entirely, because --

Sherman is still _alive_.

Sherman is currently considered MIA in _Vietnam_.

Filbrick's been back in time with the ability to change the world as he knows it for nearly a full day, and he hasn't done a damned thing to bring his eldest son home from a war they aren't even going to win. What the _Hell_ does he think he's doing wasting time sitting around while his son suffers as a POW?

"We're home," says a voice Filbrick hasn't heard in years. Leslie takes in the dead silence of the room, Rachel in her arms, and tentatively asks, "Is something wrong? There hasn't been any news about Shermie, has there?"

Maude and Stan are both quick to deny anything unpleasant. Filbrick barely hears them. He drops the photos in his hands onto the table and rises from the chair he'd been seated in.

"Fil?" Maude calls after him, "Where are you going? Dinner's almost ready!"

The man doesn't turn around as he makes a beeline for his office. "Start without me!" he instructs, slamming the door closed behind him.

Filbrick's gaze flies to the wall behind his desk and the map pinned there. Various markers and notes chronicle first Sherman's deployment (or as much of it as the younger man had been allowed to write home about) and then speculation about where the damned Vietnamese might keep prisoners. He'd known it was a fool's errand when he'd started it; it might not be so anymore.

He spends hours trying to remember details that haven't mattered in decades and scours Sherman's letters for anything that may point him in the right direction. Filbrick manages to narrow down the possibilities to a far greater degree than he could have possibly achieved before Sherman's return in his first life. It isn't enough. There are still large swaths of land the prison camp could be located in and he can't pinpoint where it would be hidden.

He'd been over ninety years old when he'd died and his mind had been one of the few things that had still functioned mostly the way it should; but if he can't remember the past well enough to do _this_ , then what good is he? If he could just remember which river Sherman had said the camp had been near, that alone would be a large step in locating his son; but no matter how hard he tries, he can't recall the name of the damned river.

The more he thinks about it, the more problems present themselves. Even if he _could_ pinpoint the camp, how does he convince the army to act on the information? How does he explain being an American civilian that's never set foot in Vietnam but knowing where to look for captured soldiers? What if something changes in the operation and Sherman dies as a result? Filbrick knows his son will make it back home in roughly a year's time if nothing changes, short a leg but otherwise whole. He doesn't have any sort of guarantee on his son's life if he starts changing things. It had been a miracle that the younger man had survived his imprisonment and the subsequent rescue mission to begin with, according to the tales Sherman had told him. (They'd both made sure to wait until the women weren't around to overhear those stories. There are some things mothers and wives don't need to know about.) Trying to bring Sherman home early may well end up bringing his son home in a box for all Filbrick knows.

"Damn it!" the man snaps. He spins away from the map and slams a fist down on his desk. It's probably a good thing he'd drained the bottle last night because Filbrick has just enough clarity left to recognize that his temper and alcohol would be a bad combination. He's not certain that realization would stop him if he had another bottle readily available. The father collapses into his desk chair and holds his head in his hands. "I'm a God-damned, useless piece of shit," he growls through his frustration, "Why put me back here if You're not going to help me save my son?"

There's no answer, not that he'd been expecting one. It's not like he usually gets one. Or maybe he just never learned how to listen properly. Either way, he has no more direction now than he'd had before.

He thinks about going to bother whoever is minding the chapel tonight. Then he remembers that he isn't stuck in the nursing home anymore. That leads to a strange mix of gratitude and irritation.

He thinks about calling Carla but a quick glance at the clock makes him hesitate. He starts counting back hours to Pacific Time to determine if it's too late in the evening to place a call to the other side of the country, but then he remembers again that the year is 1970 and his second daughter-in-law doesn't even live in California yet. In fact, she's forty-some-years too young to be the woman he knows, isn't even his daughter-in-law, and is actually closer to being a child right now than she is to being an adult.

He immediately rejects the idea of going to Leslie. Even if it wasn't past midnight and the woman didn't work the nightshift at the local hospital, he still wouldn't ask his first daughter-in-law. The woman had enough on her plate without him adding to her worries.

Filbrick scowls at the woodgrain of his desk. Maude had grown up in church but had rejected the faith well before he'd married her. He isn't certain if any of her family truly believes or if they go to church out of tradition. His own family lives further north for the most part and wouldn't be of much help, anyway. (He'd been raised on the Tanakh, the same as his sisters. He _knew_ those writings, even if as a younger man he hadn't always believed in the existence of the God they were centered around. It's the New Testament books he has difficulty remembering, and so it is the New Testament that he is hoping will have answers.) Filbrick and Maude had raised their own sons largely without any sort of religion, so neither Stan nor Stanford would be of any help even if he were willing to ask one of his younger sons. Sherman had converted to Christianity around the time he got serious about Leslie, but the problem there is obvious.

The man groans. He's going to need to start searching for a church with a pastor willing to put up with unusual questions and that doesn't ask any of his own in return. Is the possibility of counsel worth that much hassle? Maybe he should just start reading and hope the answers he needs are near the beginning and glaringly obvious.

"Why am I here?" he asks without expecting an answer. And, indeed, the room around him remains silent.

Filbrick doesn't know how long he sits at his desk. It could be hours or it could be minutes. Eventually, though, the man is forced to admit there is nothing more he can do tonight except go to bed and get some sleep.

The apartment is quiet as he leaves his office. He doesn't bother to look for the portion of dinner he knows Maude will have set aside for him.

The door to the twins' room is closed and the light is off. If they know what's good for them, they're actually sleeping in there and not just pretending. The door to Leslie's room is open and Filbrick can see Rachel sleeping contentedly in her crib while her mother is away at work. He pauses in the hallway. He barely ever knew Sherman's children. Filbrick hasn't seen Rachel since she was a young teenager, not long after Leslie had remarried. Maybe that's a good thing. Filbrick is well aware of his troubling propensity to ruin the lives of those around him. He doesn't want that for his grandchildren any more than he's ever wanted it for the rest of his family.

The man forces himself to continue down the hall to his own bedroom. His regrets are just as useless as they always were. He refuses to dwell on them when he could be doing something more productive, like sleeping.

"Filbrick?" Maude calls before he has even stepped into the room fully.

The man startles slightly. He'd been sure his wife would be asleep by now. "Yes?"

"Close the door." Filbrick can feel his eyebrows climbing his forehead at the request but he obeys all the same. Their bedroom door is usually left open so that Maude can get to Rachel quickly if the baby starts to cry in the middle of the night.

Maude is silent as he crosses the room and sits down on his side of the bed to pull off his shoes. She waits for him to strip down to his undershirt and boxers before speaking again. "What's wrong, Filbrick?" She must know he's about to brush the question aside without a real answer because she adds, "I'm worried about you."

The man pauses long enough to put some thought into his response. His wife uses the time to guide him into joining her in the bed properly. In the dark, with Maude pressed to his side, Filbrick allows himself to admit, "There's nothing I can do to help him. Our son is lost in the middle of a damned _war_ and there isn't a thing I can do about it."

"Fil--"

"He isn't dead," he asserts quickly. He isn't going to entertain thoughts he knows aren't true, and he isn't going to allow them to fester in Maude's mind, either, if he has any say in the matter. "He's lost, but he isn't dead. It's going to take time to find him. It's just difficult to keep waiting when I feel like I ought to be doing something to help bring him home."

"I know, honey. I know," Maude sighs. "I wish there was something I could do to bring him home, too."


	10. Start of a New Day

It's strange to wake up with Maude safely nestled against his left side after so many years of sleeping alone. (If he'd have known at the start how much longer after her passing he would live, he might have tried to find another wife. It's probably just as well that he hadn't bothered. He doubts he'd have found another woman willing to put up with him.)

Filbrick turns his head so that he can see the woman in question. Maude seems to be comfortably asleep. Good. She needs the rest.

Now that he's awake, he should start getting ready for the day. The man remains where he is. The bed is warm and having Maude close beside him is pleasant. If this is his new reality, and Filbrick is beginning to accept that it is, then he has every intention of taking some time to enjoy the fact that he is once again a married man. A few minutes of indulgence won't cause any harm.

Of course, he isn't completely idle. He can think and plan as well from his bed as he can from anywhere else, after all.

There isn't anything he can currently do for Sherman. It's unfortunate, but that's the conclusion he reached last night regarding his eldest son. In a year's time there will be plenty that will need to be done to help the younger man, but for now there is nothing to do but wait and pray.

It's a Monday, today, so he'll need to open and run the shop. He might also reclaim a Bible from the pawnshop's inventory for his own use and begin reading if things are quiet enough to allow for it. The terms of Stanley's grounding also mean his youngest son will be around after school to help run things for the last two hours before the shop is closed for the day. (He may need to find something else to occupy Stan's attention after the workday is over. The boy finds his way into trouble too easily.)

He should probably make time to talk to Stanford soon. Privately, without his twin (or Maude) listening in. It's all-but-guaranteed to be an uncomfortable, too-emotional conversation, but it's better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. Of course the boy's been avoiding Stan, and subsequently the apartment, so when the opportunity to do so will --

The alarm clock begins to beep.

Filbrick growls, twists toward his nightstand, and slams a fist down on the unfortunate device to shut it up. Maude stirs at his side.

"Fil?" Maude calls, half-asleep still.

Filbrick grunts, turning back to face the woman. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Hm," Maude hums in answer. She snuggles closer and wraps her arms around him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of finding my husband still in bed with me this morning?" she teases.

"There's nothing pressing that needs my attention today," Filbrick grumbles. There isn't anything all that pressing most days, and they both know it. He just doesn't allow himself to remain idle and useless when he could be doing something productive instead.

"Oh?" Maude smirks at him but apparently decides not to push for a real answer. Instead, she quips, "I can think of something 'pressing' that could use your attention right now." The woman shifts against him pointedly, successfully drawing his awareness to every inch of contact between them.

The man draws in a sharp breath. " _Maude_ ," he manages on the exhale, tone falling awkwardly somewhere between warning and plea.

His wife chuckles. "What are you waiting for, Fil?" she asks as her voice takes on a husky quality, "An engraved invitation?" She kicks a leg over his waist and rocks her hips into him.

Filbrick rolls them over and settles on top of her. "Woman, you are trouble," he growls.

Maude's green eyes shine. "Pretty sure that's half the reason you married me," she answers with a grin, "You needed a little trouble in your life."

The man snorts in amusement. He doesn't argue. "Marrying you was the best mistake of my life," Filbrick rumbles in a low voice. He silences whatever his wife's next response would have been with a demanding kiss.

Maude hums her approval into his mouth.

It isn't long before they're doing far more than kissing.

* * *

Filbrick watches as Maude goes about making breakfast. He's already retrieved the newspaper from the front door, but it lays neatly folded and half-forgotten at his elbow. (He'd tried reading it earlier but his attention kept drifting, and, after the third time, he'd given up. It's not as if there's ever anything interesting printed on the pages, anyhow.)

Maude smirks at her husband and raises an eyebrow. Filbrick can't suppress his answering smile. It's a good day to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody here read [Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577048)? Anybody here remember when I was complaining about [shipping Filbrick/Ma](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577048/chapters/15347371#chapter_3_endnotes)? Well, the shipping bug came back. Heaven help me. OTL


	11. Food for Thought

The alarm clock in the twins' room goes off and it isn't long before the sound of footsteps on the hall's floorboards reaches Filbrick's ears. One hurried set heads for the bathroom and, a few moments later, a slower, heavier set stumbles toward the smell of breakfast. The building's old pipes groan as water begins to flow and the sound of the shower running becomes a steady background noise thanks to the thin walls of the apartment.

"Mornin', Ma," Stanley yawns as he claims his chair at the table, "Good morning, Pop."

"Good morning, sweetheart," Maude greets as she begins plating breakfast.

"Good morning, Stan," Filbrick returns.

There's an odd pause after he speaks, as if more had been expected but never came. Maude's movements hitch slightly and she raises a quizzical eyebrow even as she goes back to her task. Stanley, likewise, takes an uncertain glance at him. The glance quickly transforms into a stare.

The boy gazes at him with wide eyes and a caught expression. "Are you smiling?"

Yes. "No," he says while he unfolds his newspaper and attempts to find a worthwhile article for a fourth time. He ignores Maude's quiet laughter and obvious general amusement.

"Sure you aren't, Cheesesteak," his wife quips, "That's why you're hiding behind your newspaper."

Well, he'd _tried_ to ignore it. "I'm _reading_ the news, woman," he denies, "like I normally do."

"Mhmm," she hums. "Whatever you say, Fil."

The man frowns and folds down the top of the paper enough to see his wife over it. "The two of you make it sound like a man isn't allowed to have a pleasant morning anymore."

Maude smirks back at him. "I sure hope that's not the case," she says as she finishes placing plates loaded with food on the table, "You weren't the only one who found this morning 'pleasing,' after all."

" _Maude_ ," Filbrick warns. His wife only laughs and takes her place at his left.

Stanley stares blankly for another second before something between horror and disgust creeps over his face. " _Please_ , tell me you aren't talking about what I think you're talking about."

Maude only laughs louder.

"Trouble," Filbrick huffs, disappearing behind his newspaper once more, "You are nothing but trouble, woman."

Stan groans and buries his head in his hands. "Ma, _why_?"

"Eat your breakfast, Stan," the eldest Pines directs.

The boy dares to peek out from between his own fingers. "Aren't both of you too ancient to be doing any, any of _that_?" his son whines. Filbrick is fairly certain it's a rhetorical question and, even if it isn't, it is undeserving of an answer.

"'Ancient'?" Maude gasps in mock outrage, "The cheek on this one!"

"Maude, let the boy alone. You've traumatized him enough for today," Filbrick rumbles, "One day he might realize how good a man my age has it to have a wife that still wants anything to do with him, but it won't be any day soon. Hell, if he's really lucky he'll _be_ such a man."

Stan flushes and turns his attention to shoveling breakfast into his mouth, probably as an excuse to escape the spiralling conversation. Filbrick hardly notices, his thoughts turning inward.

Stanley's and Carla's relationship had been unconventional in several ways for several reasons, and in large part that had started thanks to his actions, Filbrick is ashamed to recognize. Still, as far as he could tell, they'd been committed -- well, _mostly_ committed -- to each other over the years, in their own way. He was at least certain they had been on good terms the last time he'd seen them together. All things considered, that was actually rather impressive, what with the several years of homelessness, followed by several more years of separation, and then the three decades of Stanley pretending to be Stanford, and finally the memory problems Stan had had more recently. And that was only taking into account the broad strokes Filbrick is aware of. If God has any mercy, they'll be able to achieve something simpler and more stable than the mess they'd become in Filbrick's previous life.

"Good morning," Leslie's tired voice calls softly from halfway up the stairs leading to the shop below.

Maude is the only one to offer a return greeting, "Good morning, Leslie!" The older woman frowns in concern as she takes in the clearly exhausted state of the younger. "Long shift?"

Their daughter-in-law offers a weak smile. "Sunday nights are usually pretty mild but the hospital is always a bit understaffed on the weekends."

Maude hums in sympathy.

Leslie offers another half-hearted smile before disappearing into Sherman's old room to retrieve Rachel from her crib. "Hello, darling," Filbrick hears the woman coo as the baby fusses, "Time to wake up." Daughter-in-law and granddaughter are soon settled in their habitual places at the other end of the table, Leslie's focus divided between feeding herself and feeding the baby.

Filbrick frowns. The woman is run ragged and he isn't sure there is anything to be done about it.

Maude is already helping quite a bit with caring for Rachel but in the end of things Leslie is still responsible for raising her own daughter. Filbrick can provide a roof and food but, if Leslie wants to hold onto the modest home that Sherman bought them, she'll need to keep working to pay off the mortgage. And there isn't much anyone can do about the stress of a husband gone missing somewhere in the chaos of a warzone.

Stanford doesn't offer any greeting when he arrives at the table. He hesitates a split second before filling the last chair, between Filbrick and Stan. He then pointedly scootches the chair away from his brother.

Filbrick, safely hidden behind his newspaper, glances upward in exasperation at his son's behavior and reminds himself to be patient. Stanford hasn't had decades, or even a single week, to get over the debacle with the busted project or his twin's part in it. The wounds from the incident are still fresh and teenagers are naturally surly.

At least he hasn't made the mistake of compounding that issue with kicking his brother out, this time. Stanford's mood swings afterward had been almost as unbearable as Maude's unrelenting snipes and prickly disposition. Filbrick will be quite happy not to have to deal with that again.

Table full, Filbrick lays his newspaper aside to start in on his breakfast. Eggs, a large portion of bacon (and his own mother would have _never_ allowed that onto the table), pancakes with both butter and syrup, and mug of fresh coffee... It has to be the most unhealthy meal he's been presented with in years. It smells like heaven. Filbrick has high hopes that it might even taste as good as it smells.

When he takes his first bite, he isn't disappointed.


	12. Changed

Stanford doesn't waste time as he eats and he finishes his meal well ahead of anyone else. "I have to get going," the teenager states as he excuses himself from the table.

"What?" Stanley looks over at his brother in surprise before stealing a glance at the wall clock above Filbrick's head, "Ford, we got another half-hour before we hafta head out!"

Stanford doesn't look back as he heads for the twins' room to retrieve his school supplies. "I'm walking," he says, tone at once stubborn and dismissive.

"But..." Stanley's shoulders hunch and he trails off instead of finishing his thought. He pokes at the food on his plate in a despondent manner, any enthusiasm he'd had for the meal gone.

Filbrick frowns and as he weighs his options. He had told Stan he wasn't going to step into the latest squabble between the brothers. On the other hand, he'd forgotten about Stanford's ability to hold a grudge. The boy's anger has a tendency to linger and simmer just under the surface. He may need a push in the right direction before any headway can be made.

Said prickly teenager emerges from his room with his backpack slung over his shoulders, feet carrying him toward the stairs in a determined clip.

Filbrick can already feel a headache coming on. "Sit down, Stanford," he instructs as he goes about finishing his own breakfast.

His son jerks to a stop and spins to face the table where the rest of the family is still gathered. "Dad, I need to go," the boy protests, "I'll be late!"

"You're not going to school today," Filbrick states bluntly without looking up from his plate.

"What?" Stanford asks, obviously wrongfooted.

"You don't have any tests today, do you?" He doubts it. Finals can't be too far off. The entire day will probably be nothing more than review.

"Well, no, but --"

"Then what do you need to go to school for?"

He lifts his gaze just in time to catch Stanford's completely flummoxed expression. "I," the teenager scrambles for an answer and settles on, "Exam Prep?"

Filbrick snorts. "You don't need it. You could test out of high school now," he states bluntly, "and get straight A's, at that." Stanford always did, after all.

"Attendance?" Stanford tries, "I'll get in trouble if I just fail to show up."

He waves that concern away. "I'll send a note with Stan. If the faculty has a problem with it they can take it up with me."

That is apparently the end of his son's objections because the boy trudges back to the table and slumps into his seat. His bag lands on the floor with a careless thud.

"Don't suppose that means I can play hooky, too?" Stan asks with a grin that wants to be sly but is more half-hearted than anything.

Filbrick isn't sure if the question was meant to be serious or joking. Either way, Stanford's expression changes from a sulk into a dark scowl.

"No." Filbrick's voice is flat and his words are frank as he says, "You can't afford to skip any remaining school days if you want a chance at graduating this year."

 _That_ earns him a reprimanding kick under the table from his wife. He doesn't need to look to know that the woman is glaring at him.

Filbrick closes his eyelids and rubs at his left temple, attempting to ward off the headache he can feel building behind his empty eye socket. He's not having this argument again, and certainly not in front of the family. He isn't going to coddle his sons just so they can be blindsided when the world decides to kick them in the teeth. Pretending that Stanley doesn't need to work hard at this point in order to graduate will only increase the likelihood of his failure, if he's foolish enough to believe it. Not that he expects Maude to ever see things his way.

Filbrick shoves one last mouthful of syrup-drenched eggs into his mouth, swallows, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and rises from his chair.

"Thank you for breakfast, Maude," he says instead of initiating the fight he knows his wife is gearing up to have. Her surprise at his verbal gratitude is vividly painted across her face. Maybe he should express his thanks more often. A simple 'thank you' shouldn't cause shock and Maude deserves to feel valued. "Stanford, go wait in the car. I'll be down shortly."

Stanford's features soften into something vaguely quizzical, though he asks no questions. "Yes, Sir." The boy grabs his book bag without giving a thought to the fact he won't be needing it today and disappears down the stairs leading to the ground floor.

"Don't you need to open the shop soon?" Maude points out.

"It can stay closed for one morning," Filbrick dismisses, though he doesn't miss the worried glances his family gives him for it. Even Leslie, who doesn't know him nearly as well as Maude or Stanley, stares at him in surprise before Rachel's fussing recaptures her attention.

He is aware the choice may not be in line with the man he was decades ago but surely deciding to take a few hours off work shouldn't be enough to cause concern, should it? Regardless, he refuses to play at being someone he's not, and that includes his past self.

It suddenly occurs to him to wonder, how much _has_ he changed in forty-three years of living? Filbrick brushes the thought aside. He's a stubborn bastard, for better or worse. He can't have changed that much. The family will just have to adjust to whatever changes do exist in his character. He isn't about to start second-guessing himself now.

"I'll be back by lunch," he says, "Stanford will probably want to spend his free time elsewhere. The library, maybe."

"Well, alright," Maude frets for some reason he isn't about to start guessing at, "but hurry back."

"Hm."

Filbrick leaves the dining table for his office. He collects his sunglasses, tucks his eyepatch into his jacket pocket, and jots down a hasty note to excuse Stanford from school for the day. Upon returning to the main living area of the apartment, he passes the slip of paper to Stanley. "Drop that off at the Principal's Office for your brother," he instructs.

"Yeah. Okay, Pops," Stan drones before abandoning the remains of his breakfast to get ready for the day.

Filbrick bites back the urge to correct the boy's words as the younger Pines passes him. The teen is nearly a man and he needs to be allowed to make his own choices at some point, including a lack of manners and lazy speech if that's what it comes to. (So long as it isn't purposeful disrespect, anyway. Filbrick will not tolerate being disrespected in his own home.)

He shakes off the minor irritant and heads for the stairs to take his leave of the building.

Filbrick exits the pawnshop through the back door and proceeds to stare at his old car for a second. It's an import, a wedding gift from Antonio, Maude's stepbrother, that Filbrick had kept meticulously maintained. Stanford is already settled in the passenger's seat on the left side of the car, which is exactly as the man would normally want it, except... He hasn't driven a car in _years._ He isn't sure he wants to risk driving for the first time in so long while another person is in the car with him.

Decision made, he walks up to the passenger's side and raps lightly on the window. Stanford obligingly cranks the window down and with a confused frown says, "Dad?"

"You're driving," he informs his son in a gruff tone.

The frown deepens. "Oh, okay."

Filbrick glances upward in exasperation. When did his sons start failing to say a simple 'yes, sir'? He knows he spent the necessary time drilling basic manners into their thick skulls when they'd been young children.

Stanford is soon behind the wheel and Filbrick tries to get comfortable in a seat he has rarely, if ever, sat in before. He feels like he ought to be a few feet to the right of where he is and everything looks slightly off from how it should, thanks to the angle.

"Where are we going?" the teen inquires.

Filbrick shrugs easily. "Wherever you want to talk about what Stan did to your project," he answers, "I assume you don't want the rest of the family giving their two cents on everything."

Stanford's expression darkens again. "No," he says, voice hard, "I don't." He busies himself with turning over the engine and adjusting the mirrors. Finally, in a somewhat more agreeable tone, he proposes a destination, "The beach?"

Filbrick grunts and settles in for the ride. The beach will work as well as anywhere else, and this early on a school day it may even provide a decent amount of privacy for the coming conversation.

When they arrive at the shoreline and the car has been parked, Filbrick doesn't bother getting out of the vehicle. Instead, he rolls down his window, leans back in his seat, and crosses his arms.

He's never understood why Stanford refuses to go to Maude when he's upset like his brothers do. Maude is better at all that emotional coddling business that leaves Filbrick utterly lost and he's quite content to leave that aspect of child-rearing entirely to his wife. He doesn't do emotions. At the very least, he doesn't do them well. Stanley obviously realizes that. His youngest son goes straight to Maude every time. Sherman had come to him on occasion, but generally that had been to avoid upsetting his mother or because it had been a man's matter. But, for whatever reason beyond Filbrick's ability to fathom, Stanford gravitates to _him._

He's not good at it. He knows he's not good at it. He tries anyway.

"Alright, Stanford. Let's have it. Why are you mad at your brother?"


	13. Abundant Frustrations and Few Answers

"He ruined everything!" Stanford rages, "He broke my project and sabotaged my chance to attend West Coast Tech. All because he's selfish and couldn't let me have something for myself! And then he had the gall to bring up that stupid sailing dream we had when we were kids! When is he going to grow up? We're almost eighteen! He has to realize by now how foolish the whole idea was. It was never going to happen!

"Why couldn't he have kept out of it entirely? My choice of college shouldn't be something Stan had anything to do with, but he managed to interject himself into that, too. Just like he does with _everything else!"_ The teenager scowls out the windshield. "I shouldn't be surprised he'd do this. I should have _expected_ that Stan would try something. Our whole lives have set the precedent and I didn't --" His knuckles pale as he clenches his hands around the steering wheel. The angry expression falls from his face to be replaced with a blank facade. "That's what it's going to come down to, isn't it? My life is never going to be my own unless I cut Stan out of it."

Filbrick frowns as he considers what his son has said. "That would be one way to go about it," he concedes, "Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

Stanford closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the curve of the steering wheel between his hands. "I don't know what else I _can_ do," he confesses, "I feel like I'm drowning under the whole twin-thing, and every time I try to break free so I can breathe a little, Stan is right there to pull me under again. I'm starting to resent him for it. I hate being a twin. I never had any problems like this with Sherman."

"Hm. Have you tried talking to Stan?"

Stanford shakes his head without lifting it. "It wouldn't do any good. He never _listens._ It's like words have no value to him! Even if he did listen, he wouldn't understand. If he was feeling crushed under a shared identity like I do, I could find time away from him to figure myself out because he'd be using that time to do the same. It's gotten worse since he and Carla had that fight, too. He's gotten so clingy that I can't seem to get more than a few minutes to myself, anymore."

"Right, let's get that fool idea out of your head now," Filbrick says gruffly and the boy shifts just enough to look at him, "You are Stanford Filbrick Pines. There only ever has been and only ever will be one of you. You are not either of your brothers. You are not your mother or any of her line going back. You are not me or any of my line going back. Your identity belongs to you alone. And anyone else who would try to claim it is committing theft."

"I wish I knew who Stanford Filbrick Pines is without Stanley Jacob Pines," the boy groans.

Filbrick reaches out and briefly squeezes his son's shoulder. "This isn't a new problem," he observes.

"No," Stanford answers simply.

"So, what was it about breaking your project that caused the blow up?"

"He stabbed me in the back, Dad! And I don't --" he grimaces before continuing in a near whisper, "I never thought he would go that far, but he did. I can't even trust him anymore."

Filbrick considers the answer he'd received for several minutes. Finally, he breaks the silence and says, "'Sabotaged' and 'stabbed in the back' both imply a malicious intent directed at you. Do you really think your brother is capable of that?"

Stanford pushes himself away from the wheel and into a slump against the backrest of his seat. He looks over at Filbrick with a resigned expression. "What other explanation is there?" he questions.

"Poor impulse control and a fear of consequences," the man states bluntly, "It wouldn't be the first time he's done something foolish and tried to sweep the evidence under the rug in an attempt to escape being held accountable for his actions."

Stanford groans, sinks further into his seat, and scrubs his face with his hands. From behind his palms he moans, "That would almost be worse."

"Perhaps."

The hands drop into their owner's lap. "If I so much as admit to thinking he _might_ not have done it on purpose, he's going to expect me to forgive him. Never mind the very real, very lasting effects his actions have on _my_ life."

Filbrick shakes his head. "He isn't getting away with anything. Stan is grounded until the start of next year. The only free time he's going to have in the near future will be during the weekends. Otherwise, he'll be at school or home. You'll have plenty of time and opportunity to be separate from your twin if that's what you want. As for forgiveness..." The man sighs. "It takes a strong man to forgive someone that's wronged him."

Stanford frowns, his expression closer to confused than angry as he says, "You think I should forgive him."

"I think grudges turn people bitter and spoil relationships," Filbrick states, "More to the point, I'm willing to bet you'll get tired of space at some point and miss him, regardless of his faults."

"He hasn't done anything to earn it," the younger insists stubbornly.

The man scoffs. "Earn? You can't _earn_ forgiveness, boy. It has to be a given freely, hence the name."

"I..." Stanford frowns as he thinks. "I don't think I can forgive him for something when I _know_ he doesn't understand why I'm angry at him to begin with. He'll inevitably do something similar again because he doesn't realize what it is he's doing wrong. We'll end up back at square one, each getting progressively frustrated with every repetition."

Filbrick shrugs. "Then find a way to get through to him."

"He doesn't _listen."_

"Whether or not he 'listens,' he does learn," Filbrick insists, "usually the hard way."

Stanford's eyebrows dip into another thoughtful frown. "Are you suggesting an object lesson?"

"The boy's never gotten far with theoreticals. He does better with something immediate and practical."

"The 'immediate and practical' example cost me my dream school. I doubt you mean to give me free rein to likewise damage _his_ future."

Filbrick pinches the bridge of his nose. "Stanford, there are other colleges."

"West Coast Tech is the best there is!"

"According to Principal Harper, who is an idiot," he refutes, "Any decent college could set you up for a good job. You don't need West Coast Tech."

"Maybe," the teen grumbles, "I still don't know what I'm supposed to do about Stanley, though."

"Get creative," he huffs, "I already told your brother I wasn't going to play referee for the two of you. Both of you should be mature enough by now to navigate your own squabbles without my intervention."

Stanford cast a quizzical look in his direction. "Then what was this?"

"A chance to talk through what you've been keeping bottled up and advice you're free to either take or leave as you see fit," Filbrick answers easily, "I expect you'll be out from under my roof in less than a year and attending some college somewhere, even if it isn't the one you had your heart set on. You'll be your own man, then. A young, inexperienced man, but a man all the same. It's about time I started treating you like one."

He hesitates for a second before asking, "Does it have to be about Stan? Could we... speak about another topic that's been bothering me?"

Filbrick can feel his brow furrow. "There's something _other_ than Stan you want to talk about?"

"Exactly that!" the boy leans forward, focus and intent clear in his posture as he spins the conversation onto a new course and demands, "When and why did you start calling him 'Stan' instead of 'Stanley'?"

Filbrick blinks in surprise. Well, crap. That explains a few of the odd looks he's been getting from the rest of the family. He hasn't said his youngest son's full first name out loud in decades. Even after Stanford returned from wherever it was he'd disappeared to, he'd kept saying the shortened version out of habit. Hell, after so many years it's a fifty-fifty chance whether he'll use 'Stan' or 'Stanley' in the privacy of his own damned head.

Stanford continues to speak without waiting for an answer. "It has to have something to do with what happened on Saturday, doesn't it? You were furious that night and then suddenly you stopped dead." The boy has no idea how on the money his phrasing is. "And, a-and then you _cried._ What happened?"

Filbrick closes his eyelids and rubs his left temple with two fingers. "Lord, have mercy on my stupid self," he mutters. Which is no doubt yet another change Stanford won't know what to do with. In a clearer tone and louder voice, he says, "That isn't a conversation you want to have, Son."

"Yes, it is!" the boy insists, "You can't call me a man one minute and in the next minute try to protect me like I'm still a child! You wouldn't try to do that to any man you crossed on the street."

Filbrick glares from behind his sunglasses but Stanford refuses to be cowed. He's too stubborn for his own good. But then, that only proves he's a Pines, doesn't it?

"First off," Filbrick rumbles, tone barely shy of being a growl, "you are _my child_ and there's no expiration date on that. Regardless of any other title or status you gain, it is my job to protect you, even if you don't think that's what I'm doing. Second, any random joe brazen enough to say anything about any tears that may or may not have been shed would get told in no uncertain terms to mind his own damn business."

"And if Shermie was the one asking?" Stanford challenges.

Filbrick hesitates. He isn't sure. If anyone in the family can be accused of being level-headed, it would be Sherman. There have been occasions when Filbrick has asked his eldest son for a second opinion on certain things. And, generally speaking, if Sherman thought something was important enough to ask about, it was something that needed to be addressed.

The corners of his mouth tip downward and he huffs, "Weren't you just complaining about being unable to escape the shadow of one brother and now you want me to compare you to the other one?"

"No one has ever mistaken me for Shermie. It's different," Stanford says, "And I only asked whether or not you'd give him a real answer."

The silence stretches between them until Filbrick relents. Somewhat. "You think Sherman would be asking?"

"Yes." The boy answers without a trace of hesitation.

Filbrick grunts and runs a hand over his mustache. "Probably not."

"You wouldn't even tell Shermie?" Stanford asks in a hushed tone.

"Not unless I thought he could somehow help, which is doubtful at best." He squints at his son and does his best to squash his quickly rising agitation. "What's that look on your face?"

"You tell Shermie everything!" Stanford accuses with a note of hysteria in his voice, "How bad is it you wouldn't even talk to Shermie?"

"I do not tell Sherman 'everything!'" Filbrick objects.

"Near enough!"

"Stanford," he growls, "Drop it."

The younger Pines' hands fist in his lap and neither the frustration nor the worry leaves his expression, but the boy drops his gaze with a curt, "Yes, Sir."

Filbrick groans and scrubs his face with his hands, pushing the shaded glasses up before allowing them to fall back in place. "It's nothing you should concern yourself with," he says while staring out the windshield, "It is what it is and there's nothing to be done about it."

"Are you dying?" Stanford finally asks, voice small.

An amused snort escapes him. He doesn't mean to laugh in the face of his son's open concern, but the irony of that question is so apparent even he can find the humor in it. "No. No, I don't see that happening for another forty years, or so," Filbrick pauses and adds, "barring the unexpected."

Stanford blinks in surprise. "Forty or so? That would put you at roughly ninety years old, Dad. You really think you'll live that long?"

Filbrick shrugs. "It's possible. No reason I couldn't."

Honestly, he hopes he doesn't live to be that age again. Being that old is a hellish experience. Nothing works like it used to or should anymore. It's also lonely. No one wants to be around old people, for a lot of reasons, and he'd watched most of his family get laid to rest ahead of himself. And if he hadn't watched them die, he'd lost contact with them.

The real irony was that the only Pines family members he could still expect even semi-regular contact from were those directly connected with Stanley.

Stan called every handful of months and occasionally even made the trip to Jersey, though Filbrick remains puzzled as to why he made the long journey. (California was closer to Oregon, after all, and filled with people Stanley would be happier to see than Filbrick.) Carla made it a point to stop by every time she came to the east coast to see her sister's family. Jason had stopped visiting alongside his mother long ago but he could still expect to receive a letter once a year, obviously stopped and started again throughout the intervening months. And pictures. He'd never met Jason's wife or children personally but he'd spent the last thirteen years of his life watching a new set of Pines twins grow up one photograph at a time.

Filbrick frowns. Will that little family he's only seen in pictures still exist? He drastically changed the course of Stanley's life within seconds of returning to the past. And Carla's life as well, by extension, now that he thinks about it. Crap. He isn't qualified to be answering any questions that deal with all that science-fiction-type gobbledygook. All he can do is pray he hasn't erased a grandson and two great-grandchildren from the future.

"Dad? Dad, are you alright?"

Filbrick grunts. "Fine," he assures out of habit, "I'm fine, just... thought of another something I'm not sure anyone can do anything about. Or should, for that matter." The man shakes his head and forces himself to refocus on the present. "Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

Stanford dithers but eventually says, "No. Not right now, anyway. I need to think."


End file.
